“One time,” said Uncle Remus, sighing heavily and settling himself back in his seat with an air of melancholy resignation—“one time Brer Rabbit wuz gwine ’long down de road shakin’ his big bushy tail, en feelin’ des ez scrumpshus ez a bee-martin wid a fresh bug.” Here the old man paused and glanced at the little boy, but it was evident that the youngster had become so accustomed to the marvelous developments of Uncle Remus’s stories, that the extraordinary statement made no unusual impression upon him. Therefore the old man began again, and this time in a louder and more insinuating tone:

The old man shifted his position in his chair and allowed his venerable head to drop forward until his whole appearance was suggestive of the deepest dejection; and this was intensified by a groan that seemed to be the result of great mental agony. Finally he spoke, but not as addressing himself to the little boy.

“Right dar’s whar Brer Rabbit drap his watermillion, kaze he tuck’n sot out dat night en went a fishin’. De wedder wuz sorter col’, en Brer Rabbit, he got ’im a bottle er dram en put out fer de creek, en w’en he git dar he pick out a good place, en he sorter squot down, he did, en let his tail hang in de water. He sot dar, en he sot dar, en he drunk his dram, en he think he gwineter freeze, but bimeby day come, en dar he wuz. He make a pull, en he feel like he comin’ in two, en he fetch nudder jerk, en lo en beholes, whar wuz his tail?”

There was a long pause.

“Did it come off, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy, presently.

“She did dat!” replied the old man with unction. “She did dat, and dat w’at make all deze yer bob-tail rabbits w’at you see hoppin’ en skaddlin’ thoo de woods.”

“Are they all that way just because the old Rabbit lost his tail in the creek?” asked the little boy.